Number 21
by tetherstiles
Summary: "What's Your Number?" AU based on the film starring Anna Faris and Chris Evans. Lydia enlists her playboy neighbor Stiles's help to track down 20 of her exes, after reading an article about how women with more than 20 lovers are less likely to find a husband.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! This is my first published work for Teen Wolf (and in general, so excuse my formatting struggles). I was watching WYN and got some serious detective!stydia vibes. Obviously I took some liberties with the plot, but I did borrow some dialogue. There's your disclaimer! Hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

"Babe, I don't know about this."

Josh, her boyfriend of nearly three months, blinked at Lydia from the other side of the bed. "I mean, a wedding? That's feels kind of serious, don't you think?"

"I don't know," Lydia glared at him. The question had been innocent at first, but she was beginning to lose her composure. "Things felt pretty serious last night. And the three consecutive nights before that."

He shook some hair away from his forehead. "Look, I just don't think I'm ready for- I mean, your _mother_ is going to be there."

There was nearly five minutes silence before Josh finally sighed, slipping out from under the covers. "I think I'm gonna head out. Maybe we should take a little break, or something."

"Yeah," she agreed bitterly, "Maybe we should.

He pulled his previously discarded jeans over his boxers and yanked a grey v-neck over his head. "You can still call me, you know, if you ever just want to hook up. No strings, or whatever."

Lydia plastered a big, phony smile across her face. "Gee, Josh, that is so incredibly generous of you."

"It's been fun." He gave a little wave, clicking the door shut behind him. Lydia threw her face down into her pillow and groaned.

An hour later, the sun had risen over New York City, and Lydia was staring unblinkingly at an issue of Cosmo flipped open on her kitchen counter. Her glass of orange juice hadn't been touched in minutes, nor had her avocado toast. "What's Your Number?" the page's title read in swirly pink letters, teasing her, as if the accompanying article wasn't a death sentence.

Okay, death sentence was maybe a bit dramatic. It was just an article, probably written by a less-than-average writer for a magazine Lydia didn't even particularly care for. But the study itself, now that was reputable. And if it were true-

Her gaze fell to the crumpled paper beside her magazine, on which she'd written the names of all 19 men she'd ever slept with. Just a brief glimpse made her cringe. Jackson Whittemore, Jordan Parrish- come to think of it, "J" names were a recurring theme.

In its opening paragraph, the Cosmo article suggested that your so-called "number" was very telling in regards to one's romantic fate. "In America, 96% of women who have been with 20 or more lovers can't find a husband," the small text read.

It wasn't that Lydia needed a man, by any stretch of the imagination, but she _wanted_ a family. She wanted marriage, someday.

The most frightening part was that Cosmo's statistics were backed up by a significant amount of research. If there was one thing Lydia couldn't argue with, it was numbers. Her odds were growing slimmer, and she was ever a perfectionist. The next man she slept with, man number 20, would just have to be her husband.

Lydia's train of thought came to an abrupt halt when her phone started ringing. She dove for it on the other side of the counter.

"Al?"

Allison's voice crackled on the other end. "Lyd, I've been trying to reach you all morning. Kira and I are going for lunch."

"Josh and I just broke up," she interrupted.

"Oh god, Lyd, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine. It's-" She thought for a moment, "I'm actually a little surprised at how not upset I am." Now that Cosmo's words were seared permanently into her brain, her ex was the last thing bothering her. _96%_ , she thought.

"I'm not. Josh was kind of an asshole."

"I might not have a date to your wedding."

"Whatever," Allison reassured her, "You'll barely have time for a guy, what with all those maid of honor duties."

Lydia smiled, "You're right."

"Listen." Her friend was hardly audible over the sound of cars honking outside. "I'm gonna find out when Kira wants to eat, and then I'll text you. Meet us at Sarabeth's."

Before Lydia could even say "Got it!" the call ended with a beep. 

* * *

Dreaded magazine now tossed haphazardly across her couch, Lydia sent a quick text back to Allison, agreeing to meet her friends at 11. She was just tossing her glass of orange juice in the sink when the unlocked front door came crashing open, and a man stumbled in.

The recognized him from the few times she'd seen him in the hall. He lived across it, in apartment 8A. She knew very little about him apart from the fact that he was loud and frequently had girls over. Nonetheless, he had no excuse for barging into her kitchen unannounced. Lydia hurriedly gripped a frying pan that had been soaking in the sink.

"Woah, easy there 8B," he gasped. His voice was groggy and deep, like he'd just woken up.

Lydia gritted her teeth. "What the hell are you doing in here? Get out! Or at the very least, knock!"

He scratched his neck. "I, uh, locked myself out. Left my wallet in there, keys, everything."

"And you decided the best way to handle that would be breaking into MY apartment?"

He grimaced at her volume. "Trust me, I won't be making that mistake again. Can I just borrow a phone, or something?"  
Lydia loosened her grip on the pan.

"Alright. You can have 3 minutes. Not a second more. And only because I owe you for accidentally jamming your mailbox last week." After a moment, she added, "You can use the phone on the counter."

"Deal," he laughed. "Man, aren't Californians supposed to be a little more low-key?"

Lydia's head snapped around to meet his eye. "How did you know I'm from California?"

"Oh, I do a little recon on everyone in the building," he said, helping himself to an apple from the bowl on the dining table. "My dads a cop. It's a family thing."

"It's an illegal thing," Lydia corrected, her eyes beginning to narrow again.

"Relax, I'm just making sure there aren't any homicidal maniacs here on the eighth floor." He took a bite. "Mrs. Hale in 8E got busted for shoplifting last year. But otherwise we're clean."

"You have absolutely no concept of privacy," Lydia informed him while tossing a few plates into the dishwasher.

"I wouldn't say that," he retorted, "My name's Stiles, by the way, if you didn't catch it on the mailbox. Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier. Incredibly rude of me."

"Not as rude as busting through my front door." She rolled her eyes. "I'm guessing you already know my name."

"Sure do, Lydia," he grinned. A big, lop-sided grin that Lydia might've found endearing if he wasn't on her very last nerve.

He looked like he might say something else, but before he could, a hard knock came at the door. "I was never here!" Stiles called, scrambling off the couch. She heard him curse as he tripped into the back hallway, running into something with a loud thud.

Lydia shot a confused glance in his direction before answering the door. A tall girl with sandy hair and wide, dark eyes stood on her welcome mat. She was wearing a man's flannel shirt.

"Hi," the girl began, "You haven't seen your neighbor around here? Stiles? From right there across the hall?"

Lydia shook her head. "Sorry, no." She wondered why she didn't just rat Stiles out, when she had every reason to. Maybe she did feel kind of bad about the mailbox.

"Huh," Stiles's date muttered, "I swore I heard him leaving this way down the hall. I have to go to work, but if you see him, just- uh- let him know I tried to say bye." As an afterthought, she added, "Let him know _Malia_ tried to say bye."

Lydia nodded a silent agreement before shutting the door and marching quickly around the living room wall. Stiles stood behind it, just far enough to be obscured from the doorway.

"Hey," she said sweetly, "You think that girl who just left your apartment could've helped you with the lock out situation?"

He laughed nervously. Lydia dropped the facade, prepared to show him how angry she was.

"You dickhead!" She yelled, "You came over here to hide from some stranger you had sex with last night!"

Stiles raised his hands in surrender. "Yeah, okay, I'm sorry. The locked out thing seemed more palatable." He gave her a look. "It's not like I haven't seen you pulling the same thing in the morning." His words didn't even sound defensive. Hell, he was actually smirking at her.

"Oh my god," Lydia cried, "I can't believe I live across the hall from a total sleazeball. At least I'm straightforward with the guys I kick out, not that that's at all your business."

"Look, I just don't want her getting the wrong idea. It's a clean break. No hurt feelings."

"Do you want a woman's perspective?"

Stiles raised an eyebrow, neglecting to answer. Lydia continued anyway.

"You're pathetic. And you're a pig. And your three minutes are well beyond up," she snapped, grabbing his arm and practically shoving him out the door.

"Thanks," he managed, "You're a peach, Lydia!" And then, just like Josh, he was gone. 

* * *

Allison and Kira were already waiting for her when she made her way into the cafe half an hour late.

"Lyd! We ordered you a mimosa!" Her best friend shouted from a window booth.

"And a salad," Kira added. They were used to ordering for each other.

Lydia took a seat across from them, and almost gasped when she saw the cover of this month's Cosmo sitting atop their table. That same cover that had glared at her all morning, mocked her even.

Kira followed her gaze to the magazine, and immediately flipped it over.

"We're trying to figure out what are numbers are," she explained, gesturing toward that stupid, godforsaken article.

"Ooh, I forgot Isaac before," Allison piped up, "So that makes mine…twelve."

"Skank!" Kira giggled. "Thats 1.5 more than the national average."

Allison shrugged. "I bet the New York average is higher."

"Are you kidding? 10.5 is crazy high," Kira exclaimed, "I mean, my number's only 3. How about you Lydia?"

Lydia shrugged. "Who cares?"

"We do," Allison said matter-of-factly.

"Um," she hesitated, "Well there was Josh of course, Aiden... I guess... nineteen?"

"Nineteen?!" Kira gasped. Lydia felt her cheeks go red. She didn't meet her friends' eyes, instead watching her fingers as she re-tallied. _Max, Aiden, Thomas, Stuart..._

"Shit!" She gasped out loud.

"What?" Ally and Kira wondered in unison.

"I forgot the scuba instructor, from spring break sophomore year." She groaned. "That's 20. My goddamn number is 20."

Lydia let her head fall dramatically onto the table. Kira patted her back. "It's not a big deal, Lyd. It's just an article. Cosmo's hardly trustworthy anyway."

Lydia wagged her finger at the first paragraph, which she'd probably read over a hundred times that morning. "The study was done by fellow at Harvard," she pointed out. "A _post-doctoral_ fellow."

"Well if it means that much to you, you can always marry one of those 20 guys from the past," Kira offered.

"That's hardly likely," Allison snorted, "Lydia only sleeps with dimwits who aren't good enough for her."

Lydia glared at her, and she softened. "Not that it even matters, Lyd. What's the big difference between 20 and 21? Or even 22?"

"Statistics!" Lydia practically shouted, "And by the way, I had very meaningful relationships with some of my 20. Jackson-"

"Dickhead," Allison interrupted.

Lydia pretended not to hear her. "And there was Jordan-"

"He was okay," Kira cut in, "A little old, maybe."

"And Josh, who may have just dumped me this morning, but-"

Allison shook her head. "I don't mean to be harsh, but I could've told you ages ago Josh wouldn't work out. He's a Brooklyn hipster douchebag and you have nothing in common with him."

Kira nodded, "He times your showers to save water."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Fair enough. But Josh aside, I think you guys are being overly critical. I could very well marry one of my twenty men! In fact, I think I'm going to try."

"Well, it wouldn't be a completely terrible idea to look them up," Allison conceded, "People change. But, please God, don't settle for some idiot just because Cosmo told you to."

Lydia smiled. "Ally, I do have _some_ dignity left." 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Lydia woke up determined. By 9:00, she had a pot of coffee brewing, fruit sliced on the counter, some generic morning talk show blasting on the TV. She ran some fingers through her hair and leaned back against the front door. The clipboard with her list was secured under her arm.

Last night she'd begun the laborious task of researching her 20 to scout for any long-term potential. Lydia still had phone numbers for about half of them, but she wasn't about to blindly reach out without getting some facts first. Hours of searching had left her with a couple of Facebook accounts set to private, and a few unsavory videos from when she'd sleepily googled, " _thomas something, okay sex._ " Her computational math skills apparently didn't transfer to actual computers.

Like clockwork, Stiles's laughter erupted across the hall. Lydia knew he was stepping out to grab the newspaper in a lazy attempt to avoid whoever was in his bed. Before he broke into her apartment yesterday, she'd seen him use this tactic on a number of occasions, always promptly at nine. It happened to be right when she tended to leave for work on weekdays. Luckily for Lydia, today was a Sunday.

Slipping out of her own apartment in what she hoped was a casual manner, Lydia called out in a singsong voice. "Good morning, 8B!"

Stiles looked up, and her own eyes widened when she took in his current state of undress. He had on only a pair of plaid boxers, and his hair was mussed from sleep- or lack thereof. The worst part was, he looked _good_.

"Morning, Lydia," he greeted.

She quickly turned her gaze to the doorframe. The last thing she wanted was to get caught checking him out. A woman's voice shouted Stiles's name from inside, and Lydia quickly cleared her throat.

"I notice you have company, but I just have a quick favor to ask you," she said, eyes still averted. "Actually, not so much a favor, I'll pay you-"

He raised an eyebrow suggestively; she gritted her teeth. "Nothing like that, pig. I want to pay you to find some people for me. You said you were good at reconnaissance yesterday."

"Uh huh. I'm pretty sure I also told you that my _dad_ is the cop, not me."

"It's nothing serious," Lydia insisted, "What do you even do for a living, anyway?"

"At the moment I'm unemployed," Stiles admitted, and she giggled.

"Of course you are."

"Do you want me to help you or not?" He asked her, adding, "And it's not like I haven't been trying. You'd think there's not a single goddamn law firm hiring in all of Manhattan."

Lydia looked incredulous. "You have a law degree?"

"Don't be so surprised."

"Whatever. Are you in, counselor?"

Stiles brought a hand up to rub his jaw. "I think I'm gonna need more information first. Wait, scratch that, I'm _definitely_ gonna need a _lot_ more information first."

Lydia produced the list. "I only need you to track down a few of my exes."

"Oh," Stiles cringed, "You have herpes. That's not a fun call to make."

She smacked the clipboard into his shoulder. "I do not have herpes!" She scolded. "I just think one of these guys might be worth another shot."

"No."

"No?"

"No," Stiles repeated, "That's insane. Those guys dumped you for a reason, and I don't want any part of it."

"For the record, I dumped most of them," Lydia corrected.

"Huh." He gestured as if he were tossing something away. "Irrelevant."

"Fine, sorry I asked," she called, stomping back across the hall. "I should've known you'd be a total dick about it."

Lydia heard Stiles chuckle as she shut the door, leaving her own newspaper discarded in it's blue plastic bag. She charged furiously into her bedroom, fuming as she spotted the abandoned notes strewn around her laptop. Lydia Martin had never been good at taking no for an answer.

Abruptly, she spun around with a new plan.

This time, she found herself sprinting into the hall, almost excited as she pounded on her awful neighbor's door. "Stiles! Stiles open up!" she cried.

He cracked the door open, and a small part of her was disappointed to see he'd put on a shirt and some sweats. His eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

Lydia seized her opportunity, pushing her way through the door and into his small living area. "It's Mom," she exclaimed dramatically, "She's back in the hospital!"

Just as she had hoped, Stiles's latest exploit emerged from the bedroom, clad in one of his button-downs. She stared at Lydia with a mixture of worry and irritation.

"We have to leave right now," Lydia continued undeterred. In a frenzy, she collected Stiles's sneakers and threw them at his chest. His initial gape of surprise had melted into an understanding smirk.

Stiles gave a curt nod to his overnight guest as Lydia gripped him by his (impressively broad) shoulders and shuffled him out the door, mumbling all the while about heart trouble and nursing care. The girl reciprocated with a bewildered expression, her gaze flickering from Stiles to Lydia.

"I'm sure he'll call you," Lydia assured her with a small pang of guilt. 

—-

Stiles fell back against her foyer wall, looking amused.

"That was pretty impressive."

Lydia clicked her tongue. Success.

"New offer," she began demurely, "You help me find my exes, and I'll save your ass like that every morning."

"I thought you said ditching my dates was pathetic."

"Oh, it is. But if those women can't see right through all this-" she gestured at him, "-they sort of have it coming."

He nodded contemplatively, glancing around her apartment. "Can I hide out in here?"

Lydia's eyes narrowed. "Fine. But you'll do work when you're over. Understand?"

"You've got yourself a deal," Stiles grinned, immediately tossing his legs over an armchair.

While he made himself comfortable, Lydia retrieved her coffee and perched on the ottoman across him. She tossed him the clipboard.  
"I wrote down all the information I still have on them: full names, numbers, addresses," she explained. "I need to know who's single and accessible."

"Accessible?"

"I'm not flying out to Beacon Hills, California for any of these guys."

Stiles frowned in concentration as he scanned through the list. Lydia leaned over to point out the numbers she'd written on the left-hand side.

"They're prioritized, so start at the top."

"Number one, Jackson Whittemore," he read aloud, tapping his knuckles against the metal of the clipboard. "So, what- is he the one who got away?"

"Not exactly. Maybe? We were only in high school, but really in love." Lydia laughed. "My friends couldn't stand him. I'm kind of banking on him having matured over the last eight years."

"Sounds like a real catch." Stiles squinted at the name. "No number or address?"

"Nope. That's what you're here for." She leaned over his shoulder, examining the list herself. "I do know number two, Jordan Parrish, was training for the NYPD," she informed him. "He should be easy to find. Oh, and move Aiden to number three. He probably still lives with his brother in the village, but he's the best sex I've ever had."

"You haven't had sex with me," said Stiles matter-of-factly. Lydia refused to dignify this with a response.

"I have to leave in a few minutes to help shop for a friend's wedding dress," she announced, effectively changing the subject. "You want me to check that the coast is clear at your place?"

"Nah, I can handle it."

"Same time tomorrow, I'm guessing?" Lydia looked at him knowingly.

He gave a small smile. "Yeah, but the mom thing might not cut it next time, seeing as mine's been dead for fourteen years. Kind of risky."

"I'm sorry." Lydia stiffened. Obviously, she hadn't expected that.

"It's okay. I didn't think you'd know, or anything." He must have sensed how uncomfortable she'd become, because he quickly added, "I shouldn't have ruined the mood like that. It's, uh, been a really long time now."

"I'll come up with something else." She busied herself tying the straps on her canvas wedges. Meanwhile, Stiles removed her list from its clipboard. He toyed with it for a few minutes before folding it into his pocket and bounding over to the door.

"See you for breakfast," he winked, "I like omelets, by the way." 

—-

The next morning, Lydia was just getting ready to rescue Stiles from his apartment when a she heard a vaguely familiar knock. It seemed the spiel she'd planned about their monthly tenants' meeting would be going to waste.

"You're up bright and early," she greeted upon answering the door. Stiles was already groomed and dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt.

He scratched his neck. "Yeah, I kinda told Heather I had to wake up for a dentist's appointment."

"Well, eggs are in the fridge," she pointed. "You can make your own damn omelet."

He didn't hesitate to take over her kitchen, immediately making a mess as he haphazardly threw together ingredients. Lydia, on the other hand, was almost late for work.

"Anything yet?" She asked, putting in a pair of green earrings.

"Might have a lead on Stuart Twombly. Great name, by the way." He cracked three eggs into the pan. "The Whittemore thing is a pain in the ass, though. You didn't tell me about his dad."

"Mr. Whittemore owns half the city," Lydia affirmed. "But shouldn't that make him easy to find?"

"Find, sure. But actually getting in touch with him is gonna be impossible. Rich people like their privacy."

"I guess you're just going to have try extra hard then," she smiled, slinging her purse over her shoulder as she prepared to leave. "Take this job seriously and you can have your own key."

"Really?" Stiles turned to meet her eye over his shoulder.

"As long as you clean up after yourself. And Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Please watch the stove before you set my apartment on fire."

"Not this one; Scott won't eat chocolate." Allison pushed a delicate china plate across the table. Lydia eyed the ganache-covered slice of cake that sat atop it. She'd thought helping her best friend choose a wedding cake would be a nice way to relax after work. Little did she know that eating dessert could rival the stress of a one o'clock meeting, given the right context.

"Ally, I can't believe you'd marry someone who hates chocolate."

"Your last boyfriend didn't believe in sugar," Allison deadpanned.

"Touché."

They were down to three choices. Meyer lemon cake with coconut meringue frosting, something very bland-tasting with raspberry filling, and a strawberry shortcake that the wedding planner kept insisting was "too pedestrian."

"I think the lemon is my favorite," Allison proclaimed, "It's to die for."

"Yeah, and it's the prettiest by f-" Before Lydia could finish her sentence, her phone vibrated on the table.

"Oh my god," she said out loud, reading her incoming text. "He found Stuart."

"So you're going ahead with the ex-stalking project?"

Lydia snorted. "Ally, this is borderline stalking at worst. I'm just looking them up."

"With the help of whom? A private investigator?"

"Hardly. It's my neighbor whose dad is a cop."

"Oh," Allison rolled her eyes, "You're right. That's not sketchy _at all_."

"I just want to know if they're married. Is that so wrong?" Lydia batted her eyelashes innocently.

"I wouldn't call it right," Allison retorted.

Before Lydia could defend herself, her screen lit up with another text from Stiles.

 _—You still eating wedding cake? I can meet you._  
 _—_ _Yes. Almost done. Bakery on 67_ _th_ _ & Lex_.

After a bit of resistance from Allison's wedding planner, who strongly favored the raspberry, the lemon cake was ordered, and the details of the dessert bar were finalized. Lydia bid Allison goodbye and stepped out into the cool March air.

Stiles was already waiting for on the side of the building. "Your friend Stuart is a puppeteer," he announced, a smug look on his face. He looked as though he was trying very hard not to laugh. "He's got a show in the park tomorrow. I'll go with you, if you want."

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Come on," he pleaded, "This is our first big break. Stuart's number seven!"

"A puppet show? Let me think about it." She started walking down the block. Stiles followed obediently.

"Fine. Can I at least show you what I did this afternoon while you were eating free dessert?"

"God, Stiles, you didn't leave my apartment all day?"

He shrugged. "Heather slept really late."

She didn't say anything, but Stiles continued unprompted. "So first off, you're on Facebook now," he grinned triumphantly, taking out his phone. "I used that picture on your dresser of you and the old lady."

"My grandmother? You know, Stiles, I wasn't on Facebook for a reason."

"Right now you should to be. It's a lot less work for us if some of these guys are finding _you_." He opened the app, showing Lydia her new profile as they walked.

"Number twelve, Dave Hodgman, friend requested you," he informed her. "He also tagged you in the album 'Spring Break 2010.'"

Lydia groaned, and Stiles actually had the nerve to laugh at her. "He's married, though. Real bummer," he concluded with a grin.

"Anything else?"

They were rounding the front of their building now. Stiles chivalrously opened the front door.

"You'll just have to come up and see," he teased.

He wasn't bluffing. When Lydia stepped into her living room a few minutes later, she was taken aback by the enormous corkboard propped up on the end table. Slips of paper with the names of her twenty past lovers were scattered across it, some with pictures. Just a few had notes, with comments like "waiter at Chili's" and "recently divorced." Colored strings, mostly red, crisscrossed the whole board, connecting pictures and names and newspaper clippings. Lydia gaped in astonishment.

"Wow," was all she managed.

"Yeah," Stiles's voice came from the other side of the couch. "Dad didn't take me to a lot of Mets games, but he did take me on a plenty of stake-outs."

She tugged at a loose string. "Why red?"

"It means unsolved," he explained.

"So that's why Dave and Max are green?"

"Both married," Stiles confirmed, "Case closed."

"What's this?" Lydia was prodding a large paper bag next to Stiles's display. Sometime in the last few seconds, he had moved to stand behind her. Just a little close for comfort.

"Oh. I ordered some Chinese, you know, before I left to meet you."

"You ordered food to my apartment?"

"You can have some," he offered.

Instantly, they were sprawled out across the living room floor, each with a container of orange chicken in one hand, and a copy of the list in another. Stiles reclined comfortably against the bottom of the couch, already so at home in Lydia's apartment that it almost unsettled her. She kept her legs crossed pointedly away from him.

"So, Max is divorced," Stiles mumbled, "That's promising."

Lydia responded with yet another aggravated groan.

"What about Jackson? I want to find _him_."

Stiles spoke through a mouthful of food. "I got something, but you won't like it. He's on a service trip in Africa, won't be back for at least a month or two."

"A month?"

He smirked. "In the meantime, I've got Stuart Twombly's puppet show…"


	3. Chapter 3

_**Note: To clear a few things up, some names used for this fic are in fact borrowed from other characters played by Dylan O'Brien (and one by Max Carver). A few others are actors on Teen Wolf. This is solely because I am bad at making up names; they are not based on said people/characters- if anything, they're inspired more by the corresponding characters in What's Your Number?. So, Stuart is more of Jerry Perry than anything, although I tried to make him a little less awful.**_

 _ **Also if it wasn't already clear, this is a humans!au, in keeping with the movie and everything. The werewolf mention in here is just for kicks!**_

 _ **Lastly, I know Ally's wedding planning timeline is a little unrealistic. Let's just pretend it's a rush job, ok?**_

-~x~-

Lydia untwisted a final lock of hair from her curling iron, letting it bounce into place. She was wearing a striped blouse tucked into an A-line chambray skirt, accompanied by her best patent wedges. Paired with a bright red lip, she thought the whole outfit gave off a very Parisian vibe. It seemed to fit the theme of a puppet show well enough, despite puppets not being specifically French. But _marionette_ was a French word, which she supposed was close enough in terms of outfit planning.

As she made her way out of her apartment and onto the sidewalk, Lydia reminded herself that she'd only put in this kind of effort today (even more than usual, shockingly enough) for one reason: to impress Stuart, her nerdy, puppet-wielding ex-lover. Yes, he'd been greasy and fidgety and a _mistake_ , in more than one sense of the word. But she had every right to look nice for him if she so pleased. That was the whole point of this experiment she was running, was it not?

Moreover, and she could not emphasize this enough, her primping had nothing to do with the narcissistic lowlife of a neighbor who'd be meeting her at the show. Absolutely _nothing_. She repeated the words in her head like a mantra, and yet they still weren't quite convincing.

She entered Central Park on 71st, just like her aforementioned neighbor had instructed, but it still took her a few minutes to find the puppet theatre. The only tip he'd given her yesterday was that it was "near one of those big rocks," which turned out to be remarkably unhelpful (there were a lot more rocks than she'd remembered).

Lydia ended up spotting Stiles first, before the colorful façade of the theatre came into view. He waved to her from a blanket about thirty feet away.

"Who's this?" she asked as she plopped herself down beside him and small, unfamiliar child. The boy looked to be around five, and was wearing a too-large Mets cap on backwards. He shyly curled himself into Stiles's side.

"Oh, this is my buddy Derek's kid," Stiles clarified. "I thought we'd come off less creepy if we had a child with us. Say hi, Pete."

"Awooooo!" The boy cried.

Lydia looked at him questioningly, but Stiles just shrugged. "He's a werewolf today."

Not five minutes later, a bunch of confetti was tossed into the crowd to indicate the end of the show. Lydia's lateness had timed out perfectly.

Stiles nodded at her. "You're up. Take Pete with you."

Although Pete was resting cozily on Stiles's lap, he seemed happy to hop to his feet and take Lydia's hand, following her around the back of the puppet theatre.

"Did you like the show, sweetie?" Lydia asked, trying to make polite conversation. Pete just howled in response. He made his hands into claws and wiggled them at her face.

"Lydia Martin," came a scratchy voice. "Is that you?"

Stuart wasn't much taller than when she'd last seen him, though fortunately, he'd broadened out a little. He still wore thick glasses and an ill-fitting polo shirt. His khakis had grass stains on them.

Lydia refrained from cringing. She'd been generous placing him seventh on the list, recalling how nice he'd been to her- a stark contrast from the others- but a puppeteer wasn't exactly what she had in mind when she undertook this project. Let alone a puppeteer who still couldn't dress himself.

She took a deep breath, forcing a polite smile. "Stuart, hi."

He leaned in to hug her. "I can't believe this. What's it been- ten years?"

"Mm. Just about," she answered tensely.

"How's Allison?"

"Great. Engaged," she told him. Stuart's face dropped slightly as he took this in.

"Well, I'd love catch up sometime," he said, though his tone still sounded dismayed. Lydia filled with regret. She shouldn't have come today.

He reached into his pocket handed her a business card. "Available for birthday parties," it read on the back. She accepted it courteously, though she had every intention of tossing it as soon as he was out of sight.

"I'm sure I'll see you around," Lydia laughed, trying to make her response sound somewhat pleasant. "The show was wonderful. Thanks for having us, Stuart."

She threw him a saccharine sweet smile before turning to pull Pete down to the gravel path. Stiles jogged up to them moments later, looking confused.

"That was quick," he observed, taking Pete's other hand.

"Yeah, this one was sort of doomed from the beginning."

"You hardly gave the guy a chance!"

"Even if he doesn't raise my number, he's not worth it." She shook her head. "For starters, he's still practically drooling over Allison-"

"Wait, this whole thing is about your number?" Stiles slowed in his tracks. His face lit up with realization. "So _that's_ why you haven't had sex with me."

"Only one of many, many reasons," she assured him. "I wouldn't be optimistic, if I were you."

His usually cool amber eyes flickered with something like genuine hurt, but before Lydia could even register it, he was smiling at her again.

"How'd you ever end up with that guy, anyway?" He asked. "Honestly, I don't see it."

"I'd just moved to New York," she began. "It was the beginning of ninth grade. He was head-over-heels for my friend Allison, but she was already with Scott-"

"Ninth grade. Jesus." Stiles interrupted, "I can't believe you got me beat by a year."

"Shh," she scolded. "Anyway, I was drunk at a senior's party. He was upset about Allison and I- comforted him, I guess."

Stiles laughed so hard his breath started coming in short pants. "So you lost your virginity to the puppet guy?"

"I was very, very drunk," she justified. "I'd just met Jackson, and I thought I could get it over with, you know, at least once. So I wouldn't seem totally inexperienced."

Stiles met Lydia's eye, still beside himself with laughter. Pete gripped his arm with both hands, and Stiles gave him a little swing.

"Alright, so we've still got seventeen candidates," he said, trying to regulate his breathing. "Honestly, though, I'm really not getting the preoccupation with this number. What's one more?"

"You really can't spend any time with a girl without having sleeping with her, can you?"

"Well I can, but it's not as fun." Stiles raised an eyebrow suggestively. She snorted. She hated when he did that.

"Statistically, raising my number over twenty makes me less likely to find a long-term partner," Lydia explained for what felt like the umpteenth time that week. "There's a very narrow bandwidth for what men consider to be the right amount of lovers, which frankly, I think is chauvinistic bullshit. But I'm also compelled to listen to data that's been collected over years and years of research."

"That's right, you're an engineer."

"I was a math major, undergrad."

"Damn. I wish you'd lived across the hall back when I was taking multivariable calc," he laughed.

Lydia met his eye again, a smug expression on her face. "I would've only embarrassed you," she informed him with a flip of her hair.

"Okay, I'll have you know I got an B+ in that course."

They fell into an easy silence. It was weird how often they were able to do that now.

Eventually, Lydia cleared her throat. "So what kind of law do you want to practice?"

"Uh, actually, I've always kind of wanted to be a public defender."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he smiled at her, "I guess I just really get a kick out of never being able to pay my bills on time."

They passed one of the playgrounds, and Pete began hopping from foot to foot. "Awoo!" He howled, pointing at the monkey bars.

Stiles ruffled his short, black hair. "Go ahead, buddy."

Lydia and Stiles joined a group of spectating parents at the wall. The breeze was light and the children's laughter was gentle, and for once, Lydia felt almost relaxed.

"This might actually be a great spot for his dad to come pick him up." Stiles nodded towards Pete.

"He's a sweet kid."

"Yeah. Shit, remind me to get my hat back from him."

There was another silence while Stiles took out his phone to type out a text. Once again, Lydia was the first one to break it.

"God, this was awful. I can't wait to go home and make myself a smoothie."

"Ooh," Stiles grimaced. "You can't. I sort of broke your blender yesterday. Long story."

"You _what_?"

"I'll make it up to you with Mexican food. And Jamba Juice."

Lydia groaned. "Fine."

"Fine?" He scoffed, "There's no smoothie you can possibly make that would rival a Jamba Juice smoothie."

"You'll be eating your words when I replace my blender, 8B."

"Yeah, there's no way in hell."

"Just order the food, will you?" She impatiently tapped a nail on his phone screen, still clutched in his hand. "I'm starving."

-~x~-

Lydia had always prided herself on throwing great parties, and Allison's bridal shower was no exception. It had a bit of a woodland creature motif, with a large floral photo backdrop and a cake topped with baby deer. Not especially Lydia's taste, but she did know Allison better than anyone.

She swirled her mimosa impatiently as she waited for the guest of honor to arrive. That was the best part of the whole thing- this baby shower was a _surprise_.

Kira approached her from behind, tugging the white bow on the back of Lydia's dress. "So, which of the twenty is going to be your plus-one next month?" She asked brightly. Lydia frowned.

"None of them, if things continue like they've been."

"Have you tracked down Jordan yet? I always kind of liked him."

"We got his station number," Lydia told her, "I was waiting to confirm that he's single, but since he appears to be morally opposed to social media, I might just run by there this week. Try and talk to him."

"By we, you mean that man-whore neighbor?"

"Stiles. Yes."

"He was at your apartment when I dropped off the bachelorette invites yesterday." Kira fanned herself dramatically. "I know you said he's kind of a dick, but that boy is hot, Lyd. Like, really, really-"

Lydia held out an arm to stop her. "Don't go there."

Fortunately, a chorus of party blowers cut off their conversation as Allison finally made her entrance. She shrieked in genuine shock, just as Lydia knew she would. This certainly wasn't her first time hosting a killer surprise party.

"Lydia!" she exclaimed when she ran up a few minutes later. "I can't believe you did all this."

"What's the fun of being maid of honor if you're not going to throw the world's greatest shower?" Lydia asked rhetorically.

"Come on," Allison tugged her over to the head table. "Speaking of my maid of honor, I'd like to hear how her life's been these past three weeks. I've barely seen you."

"Cause she's been on an ex-boyfriend treasure hunt with her dangerously attractive neighbor," Kira giggled.

"Honestly, Lyd, that guy seems skeevy to me. He keeps answering your phone when I call."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Okay, he's got a little issue with boundaries. But he's fine. Strictly a business partner." Her voice cracked a little when she said it, and she must have flushed pink or something, because Allison immediately narrowed her eyes.

"Oh God. You like him, don't you?"

Kira snorted. "Mark me down as not surprised."

"I do _not_ like him." Lydia enunciated each word carefully, glaring at them both. "And even if I did, I wouldn't do anything about it. I have a number to protect, you know."

"Lyd, honestly. Scott couldn't care less what my number is, and neither could any other half-decent guy."

Lydia knew it was true, but she wouldn't budge.

"Like I said, it's worth a shot. It's like an experiment, really," she said adamantly. "It's fun."

"Chatting up your exes is fun?"

"Ally, if you'd never gone out with an ex-boyfriend, we wouldn't be here right now," she pointed out justly. Allison and Scott had been broken up for three years before they ran into each other at a high school reunion. If anyone should be feeling sympathetic to Lydia's plight, it should be her best friend.

Allison sighed in resignation. "Just let me know whether or not you decide to take one to the wedding so I can keep the caterer up to speed. As of right now, I still have you down for two."

"Deal."

-~x~-

When she got home that night, Stiles was thumbing through the folders. He'd made one folder per ex, and he put colored stickers on the front that corresponded with the strings on his board. Lydia had to give him credit for his thoroughness.

"Pizza on the counter," he shouted over his shoulder. She picked up the receipt next to box.

"Hey, your blender debt is down to thirty dollars."

"I still haven't paid that goddamn thing off? Was your blender made of solid gold?"

"You'd think so if you tried one of my smoothies."

He smiled at her. A real, genuine smile this time, like he thought she was funny. Her eyes flicked down bashfully, but when she looked up a minute later, she found that his were still locked on her.

"So," he cleared his throat, holding out a folder. "Rob's backpacking Europe."

"No planes," she reminded him, taking a bite of pizza.

"How do you feel about a train? 'Cause Thomas has some big shot job in the Pentagon."

"The Pentagon?" That sounded nice. Smart. Mature. Lydia imagined herself introducing him to her friends- ' _This is Thomas, he works at the Pentagon_.' She liked it.

"Yeah, probably pays better than puppet shows," Stiles sneered. "Or waiting tables at Applebee's."

The latter position was held by number 15, Eric Scavo, whom Lydia had paid a disappointing visit to last week. She'd also gone to Divorced Max's open house, only to have a tense conversation about how he didn't feel ready for another relationship yet.

In almost a month's worth of "chance" ex-boyfriend encounters, Lydia had seen every single conversation go sour. She had a pattern now. Each time, she'd arrive home bitterly disappointed, only to find Stiles sprawled out on her sofa with takeout, offering her a goofy smile and a sarcastic remark as condolence. Then they would start looking for another victim.

Thomas, though. He seemed promising. He was a brief college tryst at a sorority formal, who she had run into after her she found her actual date making out with a stranger in the pool. She remembered almost nothing of him or the night itself, but the mere fact that he'd gone to her school gave him a leg up on half of the others. Allison was right. Lydia had a history of hooking up with dimwits.

She and Stiles purchased her train ticket for Friday, immediately after work.

"You're lucky you've got your own built in house-sitter," he said, pointing two thumbs at his own chest. "Travelling must be such a breeze for you."

She crossed her arms. "As long as you water the plants on my balcony, you may spend time in here while I'm gone. But I swear to God, if you even _think_ about bringing a date into this apartment, you'll have hell to pay, 8B."

"Mr. Stilinski is fine, actually. Or Stiles, Esquire."

"You're not a practicing lawyer, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles closed his eyes and bit his lip. "Call me that again, 8B," he said in a low- but still mocking- voice.

Lydia threw a pillow at his face. "Grow up," she instructed. "Go get some sleep. And when you come back tomorrow, please wear a proper pair of pants."

"Hey," he objected, looking down at his gray sweats. "These are nice!"

"You look homeless."

"I _will_ be homeless, if you keep charging me compensation for that blender."

"Goodnight, Stiles," she sang with a little wave, "Take the empty pizza box with you."

Lydia slipped into her bedroom before she could hear Stiles's own mumbled goodbye. Nor did she see him linger in her foyer, inventorying the pictures Lydia had hung there. There were a few with Allison and Kira, one with her parents on vacation in St. Bart's. A snapshot of her and Danny cut out of their high school yearbook. A group photo from her old boss's retirement party.

She was already in the bathroom, running her toothbrush under the faucet, when she heard her front door click shut.


	4. Chapter 4

Lydia only worked a half-day on Fridays, but after a few consecutive morning meetings, that half-day day had begun to drag. She watched the minute hand on her desk clock turn from 11:00 to 11:01, then 11:02. Fifty-eight minutes. She could manage fifty-eight minutes.

When noon finally arrived, Lydia waved a quick goodbye to her boss and yanked her heels off to better race home. Twelve blocks and too many stairs later, she was panting for breath on the third floor landing. She found her door already unlocked.

Naturally, Stiles was waiting inside with her pre-packed bags, flipping through channels on the television. One leg was bent over the back of her couch, and his shirt had ridden up to reveal a few inches of stomach- not that she _noticed_ or anything.

"All set?" he asked lazily. She wondered if there was actually anyone in his place at this late hour, or if he'd just come over to stake his claim on her soon-to-be-vacated apartment. It had been a week or so since he last asked her to run across the hall and pretend to be his devastated fiancée or his flu-ridden cousin. Nor had she seen anyone emerging from his door on the way to work. Maybe he'd begun spending the night at girls' houses, instead of vice versa.

"All set," she confirmed.

He was up in a flash, out the door even before she was. They split the burden of carrying her belongings, and took the stairs two at a time.

"Hey. Stiles." Lydia tapped his shoulder as he rolled her luggage down the block to the subway. There wasn't enough time to hail a cab to Penn Station.

He looked up at her expectantly. "Hm?"

"I haven't actually thanked you- you know, for all of this." Her fingers played with the zipper of her purse. "I just want you to know I really appreciate it."

Suddenly, without meaning to, she took a step towards him and wrapped her arms around his waist. His came to rest automatically below her shoulder blades. They felt big and warm against her blouse.

"Don't mention it," he mumbled, practically into her hair. Then he cracked a half smile. "The unrestricted access to your groceries is thanks enough."

They lingered there too long, long enough for his hands to drift down to the small of her back. Long enough for Lydia to inhale his scent. She'd discovered earlier, during their late night scouting sessions, that he smelled very good. Dangerously good.

She expected him to try to move his hand lower- he was never one to pass up an opportunity like that- but it stilled before he could cross any boundaries of propriety.

The whole thing felt…weird.

Actually, Lydia suspected that a more apt word would be _charged_. But she was avoiding that kind of language at all costs, because there was nothing between her and Stiles. And more importantly, there was nothing she wouldn't do to keep her number intact.

The train ride turned out to be uneventful, and shorter than she'd anticipated. She called Allison and her mother, ate the sandwich she'd packed, read a few magazines. Somewhere around Baltimore, Stiles sent her a selfie in which he was tipping a watering can over her basil plant. _Don't overdo it_ , she supplied back. He responded instantly.

 ** _-You have no faith in me._**

 _-You've broken two of my kitchen appliances, now. And you stained a throw pillow._

 ** _-I told you, Lydia, the toaster was a fluke!_**

 _-Just please don't drown my plants. I gave you instructions._

 ** _-Yeah I know. You fucking LAMINATED them._**

 _-There's also an extra copy inside on the counter :)_

 ** _-You can relax, psycho. I already read them twice. Your plants are fine._**

 _-Aw. I'm proud of you._

 ** _-Damn well better be._**

 ** _-Hey, txt when you get to the hotel safe. I wanna know if that complimentary snack bar is as advertised._**

Lydia arrived to Union Station at exactly 3:43, and was able to catch a cab to her hotel with very little effort. That was one of the perks of having left Beacon Hills for New York City twelve years ago. Public transportation was a breeze now.

The plan for this meeting was simple: Stiles had found out which bar Thomas frequented on Friday evenings, and Lydia would just happen to be there tonight. There was some room for error, but they'd gotten his home address as backup, should he not show.

She was anxious, but fortunately she had an hour or so to iron out the details. She checked into her hotel in a flurry, dropping her bags before heading straight back out. She wanted to be settled into a barstool, at least two vodkas in by the time Thomas left work. Her nerves needed some easing before seeing him.

The place turned out to be fairly upscale, which she supposed was unsurprising, considering Thomas's prestigious job. The bartender serving her was a very sleek, muscular guy named Danny. He chatted politely with her while she waited by herself, complying happily when she asked for a double.

The alarm she'd set for five o'clock eventually went off, letting her know that Thomas's workday had likely ended. She grabbed her phone out of her bag to stop the ringing, only to find she'd missed some texts from Stiles.

 ** _-Did you make it there ok?_**

 ** _-Are there cool ranch Doritos at the snack bar, or just regular?_**

Then, an hour later:

 ** _-Hey, if you died on that train, I'm taking your apartment._**

Lydia was just beginning to type _I'm not bringing you back any Doritos, you dummy_ when a familiar face stepped through the door and caught her attention. She'd studied Thomas's Facebook profile long enough to be able to pick him out anywhere.

She didn't hit send on the text.

-~x~-

"Stiles, I'm so sorry," she drunkenly slurred when he picked up the phone. "I was texting you back, but then Thomas- Thomas is _amazing_."

"It's cool," he said, sounding uncharacteristically sober for a late weekend night. "Not like I was waiting up, or anything."

"Oh my god, he's so funny, Stiles. He's _so_ funny. I thought he'd be boring, you know, but he's not, he's-"

"Wow, that great, huh?"

She laughed a screechy, broken laugh. "He sent me a dress up to my hotel room! He sent me a dress to wear to lunch tomorrow, because…" She paused for dramatic effect. "I'm going to lunch with him tomorrow."

"So your back in the room? Are you okay?" He asked her seriously. "You sound pretty wasted, Lyds."

"H-hey, that's what Ally calls me," she mumbled. "The dress is from Saks, Stiles. I _love_ Saks."

"That's great. I'm glad the bar plan worked out, but you need to drink some water, alright? Especially if you're meeting this guy again tomorrow."

"God, you're so grumpy!" She giggled.

He made a noise like a groan. "Just go to sleep, and take an Advil in the morning. Call me if you need anything, ok?"

"Oookayyyy," she sing-songed. "Night night, Stiles!"

"Goodnight, Lydia."

-~x~-

To say she had a headache the next morning was an understatement. Lydia's skull was _throbbing_. Two Advil and four glasses of water had barely taken the edge off, so she was currently eating all the hangover-friendly food she could find down at the breakfast buffet. She'd be stuffed for her lunch date in an hour, but she could just order a salad or something.

The dress was tight. It was a pretty coral color that looked nice with her hair, but it was at least a full size too small. Thomas couldn't have done that on purpose, though. He probably just didn't know her size.

Her phone buzzed on the table, and she discovered a series of texts from Kira, dated an hour earlier.

 ** _-hey lyds! i just dropped the favors for al's bachelorette party at your apartment. i may have gone overboard on the penis confetti…_**

 ** _-also, your hot neighbor was over. he said you're really hitting it off with that guy in dc. can't wait to hear EVERYTHING x_**

 ** _-pretty sure i sensed a little jealousy in that hot, hot voice of his. are you sure there's nothing going on w you guys?_**

 ** _-oh, and he made me swear not to tell you, but he broke your yellow vase_**

God, her friends were so delirious sometimes. She made a mental note to call Kira later, but right now, she was running late.

Lunch turned out to be less of a _date_ date, and more of an event that she was attending _as_ a date. All of Tom's colleagues were there, and he introduced her to them one by one. She must have met nearly the entire Department of Defense. It felt sudden, of course, but not entirely unwelcome. Lydia was in awe of them all.

There were a handful of politicians there as well. A newly elected senator asked Thomas and Lydia if they would double date with him and his wife, and Lydia was so enthralled, she forgot that the two of them hadn't even had a proper date yet themselves.

She felt important, sophisticated. And Thomas certainly looked the part in his debonair gray suit and striped tie. He had such nice hair, she'd observed. It was thick and dark, almost like Stiles's except a bit shorter.

Now Thomas was joking with a superior of his- Greenberg, he'd called him- and Lydia was laughing perhaps a little too enthusiastically. Before Greenberg moved on in his rounds, he gave Thomas a firm pat on the back and whispered, "You've got yourself a good one there, Tommy," causing Lydia to blush.

He disappeared into the crowd, and for the first time since Lydia and Thomas arrived, it was just the two of them. The latter was positively beaming.

"They love you!" he exclaimed. "We're killing it."

"I've never been invited to so many brunches in my life," Lydia sighed dreamily.

He took one of her hands in his. "You're amazing, Lydia," he told her sincerely.

"You're not bad, yourself."

"You know what?" He laughed, almost incredulously. "We should get married!"

Now it was Lydia's turn to look incredulous. She stared blankly at him, her mouth agape.

Reading her shock, he put a soothing hand on her arm. "I'm serious. It's just, Lydia, we make such a great team. I think we could own this whole city together."

It took her another minute or so to make words.

"You want to marry me?" she finally gasped. "Don't you think you should at least kiss me first?"

"Kiss you? Wait, Lydia, I thought we were on the same page here."

"And what page is that?" She said, even more confused than she'd been a minute ago.

"I'm gay," he told her. "I thought you- I mean, I want you to be my beard.""What?"

"Think about it." He removed his hand and looked at her seriously. "We'll do this together. You could have an amazing life here. And I wasn't lying before. I really like you, you know, as a friend-slash-business-partner."

"Oh god." She put a hand to her forehead, realization hitting her all at once. "Oh my god."

She threw her cocktail into his hand, fixing the hem on her dress. "That's very nice of you, Thomas. But I can't- I really, really, really can't."

Then she ran.

-~x~-

"He's gay!" Lydia exclaimed when she threw open the door to her apartment one night early.

Oddly, the whole place was dark, even though Stiles had definitely mentioned that he'd be here when she spoke to him on the phone.

She heard a clanging noise in the kitchen. "Stiles?"

"Lydia?"

She found him next to the counter, wrestling with what appeared to be a shiny new blender.

"Thomas is gay," she told him again sadly, "He asked me to be his beard."

He looked up at her, and she could swear she saw relief flicker across his face. Like he was _happy_ to hear this kind of disheartening news. Before she could scold him for it, his expression turned to one of genuine sympathy, and he wrapped her up in a hug.

It was almost as bad as the last time.

He was the first to pull away, scratching the back of his neck. "I- uh- I found this at Target," he said, gesturing to the blender. "I know the whole point of me paying you back in takeout was for you to pick this thing out yourself, but it just looked so much cooler than the other ones. It's professional grade, whatever the hell that means."

"It's orange."

"Yeah, perfect for smoothies, right?" He looked pleased with himself. Lydia's mouth curved into a tiny smile.

"That's really nice of you, Stiles," she told him.

"It was nothing."

Lydia retreated to the living area and fell back against the couch, willing herself not to cry until her neighbor left. There were only two guys left on her list now, and evidently, one of them was still in the desert.

She let out a few shaky breaths before Stiles finally looked up from the blender in alarm."You okay, Lyds?" he wanted to know. He abandoned the blender and plopped himself down on the cushion next to her.

"Fine," she exhaled. "I just don't think I'll have a date for Allison's wedding."

"I'll go with you," he said quickly, practically all at once. "If you want me to, I mean."

Lydia blinked at him. "You would do that?"

"Sure. Just be warned, I'm kind of a blast at weddings. I might steal the show."

"Well you haven't met Allison's groom yet. At our friend Isaac's wedding, he did a whole set with the band."

"Scott?" Stiles wondered. "I've certainly _heard_ enough about that guy."

Lydia playfully nudged his side. "You know, I think you two will really get along."

He teasingly tossed a throw pillow at her head and she scowled at him, before they both broke into peals of laughter.

"Feeling better now?" he asked her after they caught their breath. "You want to get some food, or something? The Thai place downstairs has a two-for-one dinner special."

"I'm not hungry," she informed him. "But I could really use some air, actually."

Stiles grinned. "Then air it is."

* * *

 _ **Notes: Sorry this update took eight million years! Also, those of you who've seen**_ **What's Your Number?** ** _can probably guess what's coming next ;) ;) ;) Stay tuned!_**


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